Human
by trufflesque
Summary: Greg gets to the bottom of his feelings about Nick while Grissom gets in touch with his humanity. [GrG. Hey, that almost spells Greg.]


**Title**: Human

**Pairing**: GrG

**Rating**: M, for mature. There's nothing explicit going on in this story, but therewill be somethings mentioned that might make young readers squirm in discomfort or ask their parents _very_ awkward questions.

**Genre**: Romance/Angst

**Summary**: Greg gets to the bottom of his feelings about Nick while Grissom gets in touch with his humanity.

* * *

He wasn't sure how he ended up talking to Grissom, of all people, about love. It had started as them just going to a bar to grab a couple of drinks, then head back to the hospital to check up on Nick. It had been a few days since that whole Walter Gordon fiasco, and Greg hadn't wanted to leave his side at any point, even though he eventually had to. The hospital had visiting hours, after all.

Gil had been by every now and then, making sure both men were fine. He seemed worried about Nick, but he always made sure that Greg was eating properly and drinking enough water to keep himself hydrated. The third day, he'd come in shortly after Greg had gotten there, and he'd brought a goldfish in a small bowl for Nick, and three bottles of Dasani water for Greg.

Greg knew he was spending too much time at Nick's side, even though the mere suggestion of spending time anywhere else was laughable. How much time is "too much"? Apparently, when someone forsakes his job and his life to the point of no return, that's "too much". But, to be fair, Greg _had_ shown up for work a couple of times since Nick was checked into the hospital. Mostly, he'd either fallen asleep in his chair stationed on the left side of Nick's bed, because it felt like not being there was unforgivable, or he'd completely forgotten and had gone home to silently mope. Nick was levelheaded, he had everybody's back, and even when a decision was reached that he was unhappy with, he took it in stride. He rarely complained about a situation gone wrong, or a bad decision. Leaving felt like turning his back on him, and Greg hated that feeling more than anything.

Warrick was the only person besides Greg who felt he needed to be at Nick's side constantly. Of course, their reasons differed greatly. Warrick, of course, felt guilty for sending Nick on that ill-fated trash run, but Greg believed himself to be completely and utterly in love with the man.

It had come as a surprise when Grissom had suggested he take a break from his constant vigil and come with him to a bar for a drink or two. Not only did the idea of leaving Nick's side sound ludicrous, but so did the idea of socialization with his supervisor – because after all, that's what happened at bars, right?

Despite the awkward feeling, Greg allowed himself to be whisked away to some all-hours bar on the strip. It was relatively clean and empty, and the bartender nodded a silent greeting at them as they walked in.

Grissom decided to have coffee, himself, but he allowed Greg his pick of the menu and told him ahead of time not to bother himself about the bill.

"You're worried about him too much," Gil said, sipping his coffee. "The doctor says he'll make a complete physical recovery in no time, and even if he hadn't said a word, I trust our Nicky to come back to us."

Greg just shrugged and took a large swallow of what looked like whisky; he wasn't paying attention to what he ordered – all he had remembered was saying, "Give me whatever _that_ is," and pointing to a half-empty glass of something brown next to him – but he decided it must have been whisky because it burned like fire all the way into his belly. It took almost all of his willpower not to cough his left lung up onto the counter. But by the time he had mentally decided that maybe whisky wasn't such a good choice for a light drink before heading back to Nick, he'd already had two and a half glasses.

"You spend a lot of time there, at the hospital," Gil said softly after a few long moments of watching Greg nurse his drink.

Greg turned from his whisky and looked at his supervisor. A thick eyebrow rose at the words. "You sound like you're insinuating something," he replied, and took a light swallow of his drink.

"A visit every so often out of concern suggests a friendship, Greg. You were there almost every day in that chair. What do you think is insinuated by that?"

Greg shrugged. "There's nothing going on, I can promise you that. I'm just… worried. That's all."

"Nothing going on?" Gil sounded vaguely amused, as if he was almost sure Greg was lying. Greg said nothing for a moment and just swished his drink around. He knew very well, even in his slightly tipsy state, that Grissom could read people like a book, and he believed it best if he just stayed quiet. But then he looked at the older man and decided to set the record straight; it looked like Grissom was leaning more towards the belief that Greg and Nick were involved in some sort of indecent tryst. "Nick and I aren't in a relationship, if that's what you mean," Greg responded, shaking his head lightly. "He's too… Texan for that."

Gil tilted his head at the words. "Too… Texan?"

"Look, I can't say for sure what Nick's standpoint on homosexuality is, but even without making any initial assumptions – look at the man. Chicks flock to that guy like seagulls to a garbage pile."

"I'm not sure how pleased Nick would be at your referral to him as a garbage pile."

Greg just shrugged. "That's not the point," he said quietly. He seemed fixated on his drink as if blinking or turning away would cause it to vanish. "What I mean is… he's old-fashioned. Comes from an old-fashioned Texan family. He's supposed to marry a nice girl, and have twelve or fifteen kids of his own."

Gil raised an eyebrow at the thought of Nick in a family photo with a faceless woman and fifteen smiling offspring, each looking almost identical to their father.

"Guys that rugged and that traditional aren't supposed to fall in love with other guys."

Grissom's expression didn't change. He watched Greg with interest, trying to silently pry, trying to silently read into him. He knew that Greg had to have at least an _infatuation_ with Nick Stokes; after all, it was what he _wasn't_ admitting outright that expressed so much, and while he wasn't outright saying he was gay, he'd already assumed enough about Nick to prove as much. Gil looked away for a moment and took another sip of his coffee. "That's no way to think as a CSI, Greg," he said after awhile, as he couldn't think of anything else to say. "You assume too much. Don't forget, nothing is certain but the evidence, and you don't have any of that."

"So you're just dismissing the handful of women he's slept with over the past few years as experimentation? Gay men don't sleep with women, Grissom, especially if they know they're gay and aren't in denial. And trust me, if he _is_ as gay as he is Texan, then he's probably drowning in it."

Gil shrugged. "Maybe he's confused."

"Give me a break, Grissom," Greg gave sort of a forced laugh. "I was confused when I was thirteen, when I found myself thinking more about my male gym teacher than the girl in my class who looked like she had hit puberty at age two."

"Look, Greg, maybe he's either confused _now_, or he's not completely gay. Bisexual. Maybe he… just hasn't met the right guy yet. Who knows?"

Greg gave him a dark look and downed the rest of his whisky. He tried to put on a brave face, but in vain; he winced as he felt the burn of the liquor in his esophagus. "I know," he assured his supervisor, his voice raspy after his drink. "I can sense things."

Grissom shrugged. "I can sense things about crime scenes, about suspects, but sometimes they're not always right."

Greg just shook his head and waved the bartender over. He ordered another whisky; he was beginning to like the drink, not for its taste, but for the numb heat that was beginning to spread from his chest outward. "Let's forget about this conversation, Grissom," he said as the bartender poured him another.

There was a long, slightly awkward pause, and both men listened (more or less) to the quiet sounds of bar music and pool balls clinking against each other. They were two of about six people in the bar at four in the afternoon. Not the best time to go out to a bar, of all places, but it was really the only time they had.

"Are you in love with him?"

The question had come as a bit of a surprise to both of them, and Greg whirled to face Grissom with widened brown eyes. Grissom hid his surprise well; the question had thoughtlessly popped out of his mouth and he wasn't sure what had brought him to say it.

Greg narrowed his eyes. "Am I… what?"

Grissom's eyebrows twitched, lowering, as he observed Greg unblinkingly. "Are you in love with Nick?" he repeated, almost stonily. All surprise was lost, and he decided it better to just roll with the question rather than avoid it. His expression said it, and so did his tone of voice: there was nothing humourous about what he'd said.

And yet, the younger CSI burst out laughing. The laughter that rolled off of Greg's tongue a few seconds later was indescribable. It was bitter, at best. "You want to know if I have feelings for Nick Stokes?" he asked disbelievingly, his voice sounding higher than was normal. Greg obviously was a quick drunk; either that or he had never experienced the numbing wonder that was hard liquor. Greg wore an almost mocking smile. "No, even more than that," he continued. "you want to know if I'm in _love_ with him. What does one say to _that_?"

"You could try… the truth," Grissom suggested with a half-hearted shrug.

Greg wasn't exactly sure where his laughter was coming from. "The truth?" he heard himself say. "It's hard to come up with a reasonable truth for you in such a short amount of time."

"What do you mean?"

"What is the truth? What is… love? Love is what, a permanent emotional reaction and attachment to another being?"

"Love is… something only humans experience," Gil offered with a shrug, and motioned for the bartender to refill his coffee by holding up his porcelain cup and nodding his head.

"Love is something _you've_ never experienced," Greg retorted with a sigh. "Which is why it's a mystery I'm sitting here talking to _you_ about it."

Gil appeared a bit ruffled at Greg's words, but brushed them off with a shake of his head. "Convenience," he admitted. "And you also need to get your feelings out in the open."

"My feelings? I… what are feelings, Grissom?"

"Sensations," Gil responded quickly. "And please, let's not get back on this train of thought again."

"But I really want to know what love is. Is it something a higher being created to make humans go insane? Is it… neurological? Psychological? Entomological?"

Grissom was sure that last bit was the alcohol talking, so he tilted his head and listened carefully without saying a thing as Greg began to speak again.

"You know… I think if it's an emotional attachment to another being, animals experience it too," Greg said with a sly grin. "Papa Olaf used to have a dog… followed him around wherever he went. Lived alone when he had it. Played with it all the time, fed it treats, let it sleep in his bed. Dog licked his face every morning. Loved him till the day it died, I'm sure of it."

"Greg, animals don't love," Gil explained as rationally as possible to a man who was looking more and more buzzed as the minutes passed. "Your Papa Olaf was the main provider for the dog, so it was no wonder he followed him around. It wasn't about love, it was about being nearby when food or activity was available. Again, convenience."

"So… you're saying that I jerk off to Nick because he's convenient?" Greg looked thoroughly confused and pushed away his fourth glass of whisky. It was only partially empty.

Grissom couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at the new, almost scandalous information. He ignored it to the best of his ability while still trying to answer Greg's question. "Well, maybe," he replied with a shrug. "I'm not sure. But perhaps a prolonged absence of sexual contact is the reason for your… reaction to him, let's just say. Perhaps you're so starved for any kind of human intimacy, that you take any attractive person you can find and make them your new masturbation fantasy. Maybe… you're just confusing lust with love."

Greg watched Gil with deep, unreadable brown eyes. "What are you trying to do?" he asked quietly, leaning forward. Gil couldn't help but feel his body incline towards the younger man. He wasn't sure why he felt magnetized, but he convinced himself he had leaned in closer only so he could hear the younger man better. He found himself drawn to Greg's lips.

"Are you trying to make me fall out love with Nick or something?"

Gil closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back to his original sitting position. "No," he answered quietly. "If you really are in love with him, that won't happen. I'm merely… answering your questions."

"You sound like you're trying to dissuade me from loving Nick," Greg pointed out, tilting his head. "Or trying to convince me I'm not in love with him."

Grissom had to admit that his answers sounded as though he was in disbelief over Greg's one-sided emotional involvement with Nick. As if Greg being in love with Nick was laughable. But he wasn't trying to discourage Greg at all, and that was the truth.

"Look," he responded, standing up and placing some bills on the counter for the bartender. It was more than he should have paid, but he didn't care, really. _Keep the change_, he thought. He helped Greg to his feet and they slowly made their way to the door. "I'm not saying you're not in love with Nick."

"Okay, well, as long as we're clear on that – because you almost had me convinced there, to tell you the truth."

Grissom pushed the bar doors open and steadied Greg as they left. "Did I?" he mused, the corners of his lips turned up in a humourless smile. "Well, I've got something else for you to think about, then, if you're still wavering on your standpoint."

"What is it?" Greg asked as Grissom opened the passenger door to his SUV and helped Greg in. He watched Grissom intently.

Grissom pulled the seatbelt over the young man's body and for a moment, Greg almost sobered up. Grissom might not have been as young anymore, but he had a certain _detachment_ about him that made him kind of appealing – to a drunken Greg, at the very least. He thought he was beginning to see what Sara saw in their supervisor, but if there was any consolation at all, he was quite aware that certain amounts of liquor made people see things that weren't there. Or was that drugs? Either way, he was sure he wasn't thinking straight.

As he heard the seatbelt click, he found himself staring into Grissom's blue-grey eyes. "If you were really in love with Nick, would you honestly have any doubt?" Grissom asked quietly, raising an eyebrow.

Greg watched Grissom as the older man swung the car door shut and began to walk around to the driver's side. The ride was silent, and the air heavy with electricity and the smell of whisky and coffee. About halfway to his townhouse, Greg realized they weren't going to see Nick again that afternoon, and something inside of him twisted in discomfort.

Grissom made sure Greg was inside his townhouse safely before turning around and heading back to his car.

Greg watched him from the upstairs window for a moment, unable to think about anything else but Grissom's last statement until he collapsed on his bed and passed out from exhaustion.

* * *

_AN: This story will be a very slow-moving WIP, because I'm easily distracted, and when I'm concentrated it's often at the wrong times. So, if you want to continue on this journey, please bear with me. My pack mule gets dehydrated often, if you know what I mean._

_That sounded wrong._


End file.
